Note: The Inn in Bethlehem was probably a cave, with an upper compartment for guests and a lower compartment for animals, hence 'stable'.
Nativity SceneIt hasn't quite dawned on me before that Mary is going to have the baby soon, but her waters have broken on the road to Bethlehem, and all my vague excitement and dim sense of urgency are transformed into panic. It has taken us longer than I'd expected to get down here, poor Mary had to keep stopping, but at least we're out of the glaring eye of gossips. Mary and I could hear them wherever we went back home.
"Look at that boy Joseph, Mary doesn't deserve someone like him."
"I don't know why he didn't divorce her, it's obvious what she's been doing."
"You don't suppose those two have been up to what they shouldn't – you'd think they could hold on until they were married…"
Now Mary's in a panic herself, her gentle face criss-crossed with worry and pain. I wonder how I could have ever doubted her, that face is so genuine. I slip an arm around her. "We'll be in Bethlehem soon, dear." But I know my words are not nearly enough. It's hot and uncomfortable, especially so for Mary carrying a baby, and it's all I can do to pray that she won't give birth to the Messiah exposed on the dusty road. I'm not nearly as prepared as I thought I would be – in fact, direly unprepared, emotionally as well as practically.
Bethlehem is crowded of course – the census has driven descendants of David from all over Israel and Judah into this humble town. If I had longer, I'm sure I would reflect more on the meagreness of the town that gave us so great a king, but as it is, I would rather muse that there are much better places for a woman to have a baby.
Mary gasps again, not a gentle feminine gasp but a hoarse exclamation of pain. The birthing pains are becoming more frequent now and she looks ready to cry – tears are welling in her eyes. Please Lord, I beg, give us somewhere safe where your Son can be born.
Ignoring, or even looking mildly disgusted by Mary's obvious pain and the imminent birth, people start turning us away. It's getting late – both in the day and in the pregnancy, and now the scorching heat is replaced by the bitter wind. I'm gritting my teeth, and now Mary's face is red and streaked with great streams. There is little I can do for her, all I can do is keep searching for somewhere for her to lie down. I wish I could take her torture, and make it painless – and they're more frequent now, she's swallowing her screams, and my voice is breaking as I ask the next man if he has space in the inn for us.
His face is a picture of dilemma, partly mirroring my concern and betraying a sense of helplessness.
"There is nowhere," he tells us regretfully. "Unless you want to go in with the animals."
In frustration, I am about to shout to him not to be so ridiculous, but Mary says, "Joseph, I'm going to have to…" I know by the look in her eyes and the strain in her voice that she's right.
He ushers us down. Up above in the inn proper, people are casting their curious glances at us. Mary is oblivious, and I focus on making her comfortable. Not for the first time, I wonder if I really did just dream the angel, and consider that maybe this isn't really a divine matter. How could the Son of God be born in such a place as this? It smells awful, manure and straw rotting on the ground. I do my best to make the ground soft, piling up the best straw I can find and covering it with my coat. No one could guess that this was meant to be the birth of the Messiah; Mary and I in poor clothes, and surrounded by animals. I'm exhausted and I want to sleep, but Mary still has a long way to go. I wish I knew what to do, what I'm meant to say and how I can somehow make this less painful. Her cries break my heart – and up ahead, I see the people, some sympathetic but others frowning in annoyance. I wish I could somehow make them realise how she was suffering.
With futility, I grasp her hand with my own, cling her until both our hands are sweaty but to no avail. There is nothing I can do but wait. It is with relief that I spy the head of the child, but for Mary this is the most painful part of all, she is screaming prayers desperately, demanding to know why God saw fit to put her through this… She is so vulnerable, if only we could have some privacy.
A feeble gurgle, a small pink and delicate human being lets us know he made it into the world. Mary pants and flops back. I notice for the first time that I'm crying; sobbing my eyes out, and what's more, I don't care. The baby begins to wail, shocked and stunned at being out in the open, and then he gradually calms as I fumble over the swaddling cloths, looking up at me with eyes of pure innocence filled with wonder. I hold him to Mary and she murmurs, "Jesus." She gives a weak smile, but her eyes twinkle with triumph. She clasps him and kisses his forehead, and murmurs a quiet prayer of thanks. The place is a mess – or even more of a mess – of blood and afterbirth, but the baby Jesus has safely made it into the world. Curious people, who had shied away from the torment of birth but wish to share in the joy of the baby, make their way down and pry as to health of mother and child.
"Boy or girl?" One woman asks eagerly. Mary chuckles a little at the question.
"Boy," I tell her.
"You must be very proud."
I'm proud of my dear Mary. As experienced women bustle around and offer advice, I notice just how young she is – how young we both are. To these people we're barely more than children ourselves, but we've been given an awesome task – that of raising the child of God.
Drawing as much confidence as I can muster, I drop hints for the people to leave us alone. Most of them miss the hints entirely, and even those I ask outright take their time. At a loss for where else to put him, I lay Jesus in a feeding trough, the piles of hay making a cradle which will have to be good enough. "You have some very odd ways of doing things," I tell the Almighty, before chiding myself for not being more respectful. Jesus sleeps – it's hard work, being born – and Mary does too, but when I lie down, in anticipation of rest, my head is swimming with thoughts. I wonder if Jesus will ever call me Abba. With a pang, I think, as I have thought before, that I will have to take second place to the divine calling on the child. The infant before me is so tiny, so delicate that I marvel at the form God has taken. Such vulnerability – it seems a risk even for the All-powerful.
I hear a commotion above. "Shepherds," someone says like a curse. "Shouldn't you be watching out for wolves?"
A collection of countrymen has entered above – they're looking for a baby. For a moment, I am shocked, and then I wonder why I shouldn't have expected other people to know. This is no ordinary birth – if birth could ever be said to be ordinary. Awkwardly, they approach us, with stories of angels. Even in this squalid stable, I am awed. They gather around and praise God – the other people nearby think they're crazy, of course, and how strange it seems that the people God chooses to pay homage to his Son are just shepherds. But then I'm just an inexperienced carpenter and King David started out as a shepherd. It's somehow appropriate.
Jesus suckles at his mother's breast, Creator made dependent. She tells me to sleep. "He's safe for the moment," she says softly. I cannot fathom the future and nor should I try to at the moment. I take her advice, and so, having seen the Son of God into the world, I close my eyes and rest.
From
the squalor of a borrowed stable
By the Spirit and a virgin's faith
To the anguish and the shame of scandal
Came the Saviour of the human race
And the skies were filled with the praise of Heaven
Shepherds listen as the angels tell
Of the gift of God come down to men
At the dawning of Emmanuel
-Stuart Townend.
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Have a good advent everyone.